


voice soft and conspiratorial

by fuwaesthetic



Category: Persona 5
Genre: M/M, Oral Sex, Rutting, the most sacrilegious prayer, there was a church and a confessional in p5 no one should expect anything better from me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 07:42:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12744000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuwaesthetic/pseuds/fuwaesthetic
Summary: "It's for your Persona," Akira says, playing with his fringe, and Akechi looks at him—feels like helooks throughhim, but he nods after a moment and turns to the confessional.





	voice soft and conspiratorial

**Author's Note:**

> for the prompt "haze"

"It's for your Persona," Akira says, playing with his fringe, and Akechi looks at him—feels like he looks  _through him,_  but he nods after a moment and turns to the confessional. He exhales slowly as Akechi steps in, and he glances at the other side of it. Right now, it's only an empty box; it's just for show and for reflection. Akira casts his gaze around, then joins Akechi.  
  
On the opposite side. It's quiet, save for Akechi's slow breathing, and Akira can barely see his silhouette in the darkness of the booth. His lips quirk upwards and he presses his fingers to the screen separating them, nails dully clacking across the weaved wood. Akechi tenses a little, then turns to him; his expression is shadowed, but his eyes are adjusting to the light and it looks like false amusement.  
  
"Just what do you think you're doing, Akira?"  
  
The use of his given name makes his skin prickle. It always does from Akechi, even though he'd adopted it when he joined the thieves, just as everyone else had. Akira focuses less on that and more on the question before it, leaning back in his seat.  
  
"Playing the priest. What did you come to confess?"  
  
"Might I remind you you're the one who put me here," Akechi replies wryly, but he faces forward again, and Akira watches his eyes flutter close as he exhales. He can't see his hands, but he imagines they're made of thin fingers pressed together in a bowl-shape, the pads of his thumbs meeting. Like a nun in prayer. He gives a start when Akechi actually continues, voice soft and conspiratorial. "I'm supposed to be dieting, but I've eaten crepes three out of four days this week so far."  
  
Akira can't help the snort that comes, inelegant and awful, and his heart flutters when Akechi's profile smiles. It looks a touch more genuine, and he wonders just how many layers he can peel back in this little confessional of theirs.  
  
Not that he should. Akechi is more dangerous than he appears; he knows this, and Akechi doesn't know he knows this, but he's never been afraid to play with fire. Cautious, certainly, but afraid? High risk, high reward. He doesn't know what he'll win from this, but he's interested in finding out, and the way Akechi raises the stakes with his return fire when they're alone makes its way into the empty nights that Morgana ditches him for Futaba.  
  
The confessions pile up like that, little inconsequential things that barely scratch the surface of Goro Akechi, until he says there's nothing left. A honeyed lie, because Akira knows more than he should, and he always has, but he hums with a nod and closes his eyes. The heat of a stare touches on him after a moment, alights his skin. "Then I absolve you of your sins, Akechi."  
  
"Aren't you supposed to give me chores for repentance?" Akechi replies, closer this time; Akira deduces he's likely scooted to the screen, and he thinks about Hail Marys and punishment. He opens his eyes again, rewarded with russet eyes inches from his own, and Akira lays his hand on the screen.  
  
"Yeah, probably." He lets it sit in the quiet, turning slightly, and knows he's going to have to come back when the father returns to talk about his own problems. "Come over here, and I'll tell you exactly what you're gonna do."  
  
Akechi's eyes widen, his brows rising beneath his bangs, but he leaves his side. Akira half expects him to just leave in general, and he closes his eyes, listening for his footsteps. The dress shoes have a distinct sound, but the church is loud and empty; the echo doesn't help, and he realizes he's listening for the wrong thing when the door on his side clicks open. He feels Akechi move closer, hears the door shut, suppresses a shiver when Akechi leans down and the edge of his breath ghosts against the shell of his ear.  
  
"Well, leader?"  
  
"Get on your knees." The words drag themselves too heavily from his throat, tight as it is, and Akechi complies; his hands settle on his thighs, a startlingly warmth in the chill, and Akira slowly peeks open one of his eyes. He immediately wishes he hadn't, because Akechi looks good kneeling between his legs, head tilted up and a smile flickering over his face when their eyes meet. The position is dizzying, and Akira decides to do  _something_  before he chickens out of this altogether. That something ends up being stroking his fingers through Akechi's hair, gentle until he gets to the back of his head and grips it; Akechi winces, but doesn't move, and Akira swallows a whimper. "To repent," he starts, aware of the timbre of his voice, and watches Akechi blink slowly at him. Like a cat watching a mouse.  
  
God, he's so fucked up, isn't he. "Blow me."  
  
Akechi stares at him; the surprise has to be feigned, because he had to have known what was coming, but maybe he didn't expect it said so frankly? He laughs after a short moment, unable to shake his head, and slides his hands up to Akira's waist. Akira's breath hitches and he loosens his grip, uses his hands to brace himself on the bench when he pushes himself up a little to give Akechi a better grip on his jeans. It feels sacriligeous to have them around his ankles when he's in church, so he forces his shoes off and then forces his pants off the rest of the way.  
  
Better. Sort of. Not really. At least he can pretend they're not there, and he just showed up to church in his underwear or something, like a nightmare. Watching Akechi unbutton the clasps on his gloves and curl his fingers beneath them to pull them off isn't anywhere near nightmare territory, despite what he knows those hands are going to do (what trigger they're going to pull, even if the plan is going to go perfectly and he's going to be fine and he wishes he could see the look on Akechi's face when he realizes he's been duped—)  
  
ungloved fingers slip up his shirt and Akira shudders without meaning to. He doesn't know what he expected; Akechi's never touched him without gloves (though really, Akechi does his best not to touch him in general, the rare times he investigates treasure with him or when they're finishing off a foe together aside) and the sensation is strange, but not unwelcome. His hands are soft but there are callouses, clear as day to his sensitive skin, and Akira tilts Akechi's face up to kiss him.  
  
Akechi's hands stall, then start up again, curling around his underwear to pull it down just enough for him to get one hand in to pull him out. Akira knows he's on the cusp of being hard anyway, and a moan shivers between their mouths as Akechi gradually adjusts to the idea of his lips being occupied before they're supposed to be. The question of if this is his first kiss is a simple, fleeting thought, and the answer that follows ( _I hope it is_ ) is just as quickly brought up and discarded. Akira huffs when Akechi leans away, and Akechi pulls his face away, gaze downcast.  
  
"I have to serve my penance, Akira." His voice is heady, breathing too sharp on the edges of his words, and Akira grumbles softly before he drops his hand onto his head and plays with his soft hair instead. Akechi smiles when he glances back up (he can see the edges of it, mischief-filled in a way that makes his heart squeeze and his dick twitch), then leans forward.  
  
Shadowy nights and slick hands don't compare to how hot Akechi's mouth is, or the way he teases him instead of taking him in any substantial amount. Akira burns and presses his fingers into Akechi's scalp, walking them down to the back of his head and squeezing when Akechi pulls away to lick long stripes up his palms, tongue curling around his fingers. The sight is so lewd Akira realizes there's no confession or penance enough to save his soul from it. No, no, he's just going to go to Hell and he's going to enjoy it. He'll have company at least, very pretty company, and he tastes blood when he bites his lip to keep a moan stifled as Akechi wraps a hand around his base and pumps him leisurely, swiping his thumb across the head of his dick to catch any precum and smear that with his spit up and down his length.  
  
He comes embarrassingly quick after Akechi tucks his hair behind his ear and takes him into his mouth again—it's not like he hasn't touched himself, but this is so much better in so many different ways, and he laughs sheepishly when Akechi splutters minutes later. Aftershocks keep everything about him hiccuping, not helped by the sight of the apple of Akechi's throat bobbing as he swallows; he feels lazy and on fire at the same time, and he thinks about letting Akechi tongue him until he's soft in his mouth.  
  
Akechi decides that for him, drawing away moments after the thought passes through, and wipes his mouth with the inside of his wrist. Spit leaves a single, shining trail across it, and Akira realizes he's being waited on. His tongue is heavy in his mouth though, thick and warm, and he bites it to work some feeling back into it so he can talk.  
  
"You're good at that," he stumbles, and shadowed eyes darken with offense. Akira clears his throat, willing the tightness to go away, and leans in. The kiss is soft, and he opens his mouth when Akechi's tongue glides curiously across his bottom lip; he feels like it's all for show when Akechi presses forward confidently, tilting his chin up. There's a salty, slightly acidic taste that isn't anything like sweat that he registers dimly has to be him, and he wonders if Akechi likes it. The confessional is fuzzy and warm, free-floating like the rest of him in the afterglow, and he blinks slowly when Akechi breaks apart from him and sits back on his heels.  
  
"Am I forgiven, Akira?"  
  
Oh, right, that's what this was for; it wasn't just for the freshly born thought of Akechi kneeling in front of him in a sacrilegious form of prayer, and Akira swallows hard as he pulls his cock back into his underwear. He glances down, but the darkness and his eyes refusal to adjust to the blackest part of it don't give him any answers as to Akechi's state of arousal (if there  _is_  one).  
  
"Your sins are cleansed, Akechi." He feels a smile twitch at the edge of his lips involuntarily, then reaches between them. "Are you—"  
  
Akechi's hand catches his, still warm and slick. "I'm fine," he replies, curt and neutral and far too controlled for that to be the truth, his voice hoarse. He knows how he sounds in battle and out of it, among their shared comrades and alone—he gently pulls his hand away and slides out of his seat, rolling his hips against Akechi's when they tangle together. He's still too sensitive for this, but he can feel Akechi's hardness against him, and he does it again, another laugh stuttering out between his teeth. He wants (needs) to hear Akechi's breath catch, and he's rewarded with a soft and empathetic swear dragged out of the usually pleasant detective's mouth.  
  
Then he's shoved off, and he hisses when his back hits the wooden bench; Akechi stares at him, chest heaving in the sliver of light from the confessional door. "I'm fine," he repeats, disheveled and red, and Akira thinks  _no, you're not_ , but doesn't make another move. He went too far, obviously—it's okay for his dick to be in Akechi's mouth, but it's not okay for it to be on  _his_. He mutters an apology that's stiffly accepted, and it's an awkward dance grabbing his pants from the corner without touching each other. His eyes catch on every bit of Akechi though, drinking in his ruffled appearance even as he pulls his jeans on one leg at a time, and he reluctantly puts himself together, just as reluctantly as he lets Akechi put himself together again. Slender fingers card through chestnut hair, straightening it, and he murmurs something to himself under his breath.  
  
Akira thinks it might be math equations. He also thinks that might just be the cutest thing he's ever maybe-heard.  
  
Akira ducks out first and stretches out on a pew, ankles crossed in front of him as he keeps an eye out. He offers Akechi a smile when the other steps out, adjusting his tie, and Akechi stares at him before his gaze flicks away, cheeks red.


End file.
